


Adora is the Dovakhiin, Catra is her Life Partner, It's Ten Years After the War and They're Gunna Join the Thieves' Guild Probably

by tullypoems



Category: Elder Scrolls, Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim, She-Ra and the Princesses of Power (2018)
Genre: Catra Has Had A Hug, F/F, Pilot Episode, Post-Canon, Post-War
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-05
Updated: 2020-10-05
Packaged: 2021-03-08 04:40:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,408
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26839879
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tullypoems/pseuds/tullypoems
Summary: After years of civil war, after the fallout of the Dragon Crisis, the republic of Skyrim has enjoyed ten years of peace. Although the history books claim the Dragonborn did not survive the final conflict with Horduin, a select few individuals know the truth...On a sunny morning outside Riften, history is about to change.
Relationships: Adora/Catra (She-Ra)
Comments: 6
Kudos: 25





	Adora is the Dovakhiin, Catra is her Life Partner, It's Ten Years After the War and They're Gunna Join the Thieves' Guild Probably

A ball bounces off into the trees, careening off the roots at right angles.

An orsimer child, small for her age, chases after it, scattering a few birds from their branches as she passes.

Just before it splashes into the river, she grabs it with both hands and jogs, breathless, back to the broad earthen square, tossing it inelegantly to her playmate.

‘You’re getting... the next one,’ she pants.

Her friend, a little older, a little taller, stands with her arms folded. ‘That’s not the deal and you know it.’ There’s a playful smirk on her lips as she grabs the ball and lines up another shot.

The ball sails in a high arc toward an old fruit barrel, tied tightly to a branch about ten feet off the ground. It thuds off the rim and back into the trees. The smaller player gives a low groan and jogs off into the undergrowth.

‘Just ten more minutes then I’ll help you with your homework!’ the elder calls into the long grass.

‘This is not worth it!!’ returns a muffled voice. The shooter giggles to herself and sits back on the dry earth, letting the late summer sun warm her cheeks.

Since the end of the civil war, the towns of Skyrim began building beyond their fortified walls. Amenities at first: extensions for the stables, the occasional bathhouse or tradehouse, but soon new housing, parkland, spaces for play. As the borders opened and travellers began to return from the south, they brought with them their goods, their culture, their games. Barrelball, needing little more than thirty yards of flat ground between two trees, had caught on like wildfire.

The orsimer returns, picking burrs out of her shirt. ‘Five minutes,’ she huffed. ‘And you better know all the answers.’

Her bosmer friend grins. ‘How should I know when you never gave me the questions?’ 

The ball arcs into the clear blue sky, clunks short, bounces toward where two women in travelling gear have set up camp off to the side of the court. One of them, a khajiit in a hooded cloak, rolls the ball back. ‘Keep your elbow tucked in, kid,’ she calls. Her accent is not local, but neither is it the heavily accented Common of the travelling caravaners.

‘Uh, thanks?’ The older of the two players looks uncertain, but takes the advice anyway. The ball plunks inside the barrel, rattling happily against the insides. The young orsimer hollers in relief. The bosmer holds up a thumb and tries again.

The khajiit smirks to herself and turns back to her work. She has gathered a bagful of roots and herbs from the woodland around the walled town of Riften, and is dicing them into a weatherbeaten pot. With some water from the Treva river, a few herbs, a little fire, and a lot of time, it’ll be fit for a jarl. She glances over at her travelling partner, diligently running an oilcloth over her silver broadsword. Her brow is furrowed a little as she gives herself over entirely to her work, and the khajiit falls in love all over again.

Her ears prick up as the players simmer down and their conversation starts in earnest.

‘So. What do you need to know.’ The bosmer is standing almost underneath the barrel, idly tossing the ball into the air.

‘Okay,’ the orsimer is flipping through a well-thumbed paperback. ‘Question one. When was the Republic of Skyrim founded.’

The bosmer snorts. ‘Are you kidding? You know that one.’

‘Ugh, fine,’ her friend sighs, noting down her answer with a pencil stub. ‘Why was the Republic founded.’

‘Cuz your butt stinks.’

‘Berwennnnnn…!’

‘Whoa, calm!’ She holds her hands up, tries to spin the ball on a finger. ‘Uh, so, after the war, they decided kings and jarls were, like, bad? So now everyone gets to pick a jarl, and the jarls get to pick a High Jarl. And we get a new High Jarl every five winters.’

‘That’s more question three than question two.’

‘Can we skip some? These are kinda basic.’

The orsimer kid tilts her head in disbelief.

‘I’ll give you my sweetroll. It’s cinnamon.’

‘You better. Fine. Uhm…’ she flips forward a page or two, ‘question ten. What happened to the Dragonborn.’

‘Dude, that is such a long story.’

‘So keep it short! They only give you like four lines to write in.’

‘Ugh, okay.’ She gets up and tries shooting again, keeping her elbow neat and straight. ‘So, the Dragonborn got all the people of Skyrim together in a big council, and they all fought the dragons, and the Dragonborn went to Sovngarde to fight Horduin, and when she came back she like told everyone how a republic works, and then... died of her wounds? There’s a statue of her in town pointing her sword at the sky, it’s sick as shit.’

‘Language,’ the little orsimer was scribbling furiously in her jotter. ‘Okay. Doesn’t that seem weird to you?’

The ball rattles into the barrel again. ‘What?’

‘She figured out a whole system of government while, like, bleeding out on the top of High Hrothgar.’

Her friend shrugs. ‘Were you there?’

‘So? Neither were you!’

‘So neither of us know!!’

‘Arghhh!!!’

‘ARRGHHHHHHH!!!!!’

The larger kid tosses the ball gently at her friend’s head. She squeals and bats it away as hard as she can, past the bosmer and over toward where the traveller is returning her sword to its scabbard.

The khajiit looks askance at her. ‘Don’t do it, princess,’ she warns, though there’s a gleeful spark in her tone.

She gets a brilliant smile in return. ‘Do what, magicat?’ She squares her shoulders toward the barrel, picks up the ball, holds it on the flat of her palm, directly in front of her mouth.

‘Don’t say I didn’t warn youuu…’ the khajiit sing-songs, leaning back to watch her partner show off.

She laughs, and the khajiit realises she hasn’t seen her look so carefree in years. Over a decade on the road together, so many adventures, so many towns, so many lives, but one thing was missing, one thing they’d both needed, maybe just once before life swept them away once more.

Home.

‘Uh, can we have our ball back?’ The bosmer waves over to them.

‘Sure thing, kid,’ the khajiit calls back. ‘Take it away, princess.’

She holds the ball aloft, whispers to it in the tongues of the Dovah.

‘Fus.’

The ball flies high into the air, one heartbeat, two, three, before falling straight into the jaws of the barrel with a single, low thunk.

‘Still got it,’ she grins.

‘Such an attention-seeker.’

‘Uh,’ says the orsimer, pencil slipping from her grip.

‘Holy shit,’ says the bosmer.

‘Dude, language.’

‘But she… that’s the…’

‘Hey kids,’ the tall woman shouted over, ‘you know who’s in charge around here?’

‘Sure,’ piped up the orsimer.

‘Tell them the Dragonborn is back.’

The two kids share a look before charging off toward the main gates, bubbling and laughing at each other. Soon, the sound fades, and only birdsong and a simmering pot fills the air.

‘Could be our last moment of peace for a while, princess,’ drawls the khajiit.

‘Why, magicat, you got something in mind?’

She shrugs, looks very nonchalant. ‘Saw some nice quiet woods back there,’ she raises an eyebrow, ‘peace and quiet for miles, I’d say. And plenty of time before the stew’s ready.’

‘Well,’ her partner says extremely suavely, taking a seat next to her in the grass, ‘it’d be a shame to let this opportunity pass us by.’

‘You’re such a doofus,’ she tilts her head, runs a hand through her partner’s hair.

‘You love it.’

Beside a barrelball court, near the woods outside of Riften, the Dragonborn and the former force captain of the Imperial army kiss.

‘Time to change the world, princess.’

‘You talking about the woods, or the part where we make an entire country re-write their textbooks.’ She grins ear to ear.

‘I’m never touching you again.’ Catra pushes her away, pops her hood over her ears and strides off toward the woods. ‘Make sure the stew doesn’t burn!’ she calls back over her shoulder.

‘Aw, Cat! I didn’t- hey, wait up!’

On a sunny Loredas morning, two children try to convince the gate guards of a miraculous story, two women, hand in hand, take a quiet walk in the woods, and something in the air around Riften changes forever.

**Author's Note:**

> Just a pilot episode for now, an idea that came to mind that I wanted to get down while it was still fresh, as a treat. I'll come back to it once I've finished the other fic I'm working on (https://archiveofourown.org/works/22041967/chapters/52605916). 
> 
> Thanks for reading!


End file.
